


Boys on Film

by tilda



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 06:14:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2537210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilda/pseuds/tilda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Unless we work up to it.’ The words are out of Harry’s mouth before he can stop them.</p><p>‘What do you mean?’ Nick sounds careful.</p><p>‘Um. Go out a bit beforehand. Get the excitement out of the way, then maybe by the time we hit the red carpet, things will have calmed down a bit.’</p><p>Harry doesn’t know how he’s keeping his voice steady. His suggestion sounds so glaringly like <i>I want an excuse to go out with you and kiss you in public</i> it’s embarrassing.</p><p>‘Like, properly fake it? Be boyfriends for a few weeks? Inverted commas.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boys on Film

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hllangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hllangel/gifts).



> This is for Hllangel’s ‘fake boyfriends’ prompt, but also luckily fulfils half her other prompts as well – future fic, with a sprinkling of coming out and a soupcon of second-time-around plot. Hope you like it!

_PROLOGUE_

>   
>  _**Nick and Harry are a-blazing!**  
>  You don’t usually catch _ Heat _in the hipster haunts of East London, but we were down Hackney way last week for the premiere of_ Blazing Girls _, a London-riots-set LGBT romance (I know, right?) tipped to be a crossover hit at the box office this autumn. Also there were Grimmy and Harry Styles, showing off their budding romance. The loved-up pair posed for photographers on the blue carpet (hey, blue’s seriously on-trend right now and remember we’re down East – they do things differently there), holding hands and smooching. Dunno about the film but they were definitely setting the carpet on fire!_
> 
> _Blazing Girls will be screening at the Hackney Picturehouse throughout the East End Film Festival, which runs until Nov 23rd www.eastendfilmfestival.org.uk_  
> 

~

_‘Nick! Harry!’_

_‘Guys! Over here!’_

_They do a slow sweep of the bank of photographers, keeping their smiles relaxed yet unmoving. They never blink, however frenzied and blinding the flashes get. They’ve been doing this for years, after all. They’re professionals._

_‘Grimmy! Out with your boyfriend at last, eh!’_

_Nick doesn’t react, not even a micro-twitch of an eyelid. He just incorporates kissing Harry’s temple into their lighthouse sweep back and forth. Harry turns into the kiss and smiles. They touch mouths. The flashes become one solid white light, the shutter noises an unbroken note of insect mechanics._ A plague of locusts _, Harry thinks._

_This was never what he wanted._

~

‘This is a bit weird,’ Nick says a few weeks earlier.

‘What, you ringing me?’

‘Yeah. No. What I’ve got to ask you.’

‘Ok.’

‘You can say no. If you’re even a little bit uncomfortable with it, say no.’

‘Ok?’

‘Do you remember my director friend Nina? She’s got a film showing at the East End Film Festival. It’s a lesbian love story set during the Hackney riots.’

‘Sounds great,’ Harry laughs. ‘Very, um, plausible.’ 

‘Shhh. Listen. It doesn’t have a distributor and she’s hoping to pick up a bit of publicity at the first screening to get people – important people – interested. And she asked if we’d mind, turning up together. Like we did for Ashley that time. But this time, you know, because you’re out now, as a couple.’ 

Nick had been talking faster and faster, and the last sentence is almost run together as one word. 

Harry blushes. Of all the ridiculous reactions, he goes red like a fifteen-year-old when his mate’s mum leans too far over the dining-table and he gets a flash of boob. 

‘Don’t, if you don’t want to. Honestly, she’ll understand. She gets she’s asking a massive favour.’

‘We’re not lesbians.’ It’s all Harry can think of to say.

‘Some news just in. Harry Styles and Nick Grimshaw: not lesbians.’

‘I meant…’

‘I know,’ Nick says over the remains of his laugh. ‘Look. She’s got the female element covered. But she knows me, and I know you, and that’s major. She’s never asked for anything like this before, and I’d really like to help her. But don’t let that…’ 

‘No, it’s ok. I’ll do it. It’ll be fun, right? Like the old days.’

Nick takes a beat too long to say, ‘Yeah.’

The old days. In a lot of ways, yeah, it would be like the old days. The papers never believed them when they said they weren’t together, so it would be business as usual. Only now the press was going to have all its fantasies come true. They were going to go bonkers. 

Really apeshit. 

Nuts, in fact.

Shit.

~

‘This is the second phone call in a week, Haz. People will start to talk.’

‘Haha, funny man. Listen. I’ve been thinking. Does Nina realise how ape the papers can actually go?’ 

‘What do you mean?’

‘Remember what the red-tops used to be like about us? It could work against her. People aren’t gonna give a toss about her film if Grimmy and Harry Styles are on her red carpet consummating their love at last.’

‘Trying to wriggle out of it Styles?’

Harry ignores that. ‘Maybe you need to have a word with her. Maybe she should get someone else. I’d feel awful if we just end up hijacking her event.’

Nick sighs. ‘Yeah. You might be right. God. I’m going to sound like a right dick. _We’re far too famous for your film darling._ ’

There’s another option of course.

‘Unless we work up to it.’ The words are out of Harry’s mouth before he can stop them.

‘What do you mean?’ Nick sounds careful.

‘Um. Go out a bit beforehand. Get the excitement out of the way, then maybe by the time we hit the red carpet, things will have calmed down a bit.’

Harry doesn’t know how he’s keeping his voice steady. His suggestion sounds so glaringly like _I want an excuse to go out with you and kiss you in public_ it’s embarrassing. 

‘Like, properly fake it? Be boyfriends for a few weeks? Inverted commas.’

‘Er, yeah. Or talk to Nina, maybe that’d be easier, I mean, don’t - ’

‘All right.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah. Nice move, Styles. I’m impressed. Have you thought about going into PR if this band thing doesn’t work out?’

‘Yeah, I’d considered it,’ Harry says over the pounding of his heart.

And it’s as easy as that. They’re both going to a Fashion Week show on Sunday and decide they may as well start there. They both giggle. ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ Nick says. 

‘It’s going to be _hilarious_.’ He means it. He wants to burst into wild peals of laughter.

~

Harry tries not to, he tries to be a jaded, groupie-shagging, seen-it-all popstar, but come Sunday at 4pm there’s nothing he can do: he feels like he’s going on a first date. He’s got the same nerves, the same tight belly. He’s only been to Nick’s new house a couple of times and arrives after a few wrong turns. The plan was for Nick to just hop in the car, but of course he’s not ready. 

‘Shit, I’m really sorry,’ he’s calling over his shoulder, already disappearing back into the house. Harry follows him into a room at the end of the corridor. It has floor-to-ceiling wardrobes along one wall, their doors open on hanging shirts and suits, their top shelves stuffed with plastic bags and shoeboxes. Various garments on hangers decorate the walls, and a chaise longue - _a chaise longue_ for fuck’s sake - is draped with more clothes. Nick is bending towards a dressing table mirror, faffing with his hair. 

‘Oh,’ he says and pauses to look over at Harry. ‘Thought you’d gone into the lounge.’

‘Is this a room just for clothes?’ He gawps a bit. ‘Like, a _dressing_ -room?’

Nick grins and straightens, seemingly done with his hair. ‘Well, I’ve got all this space, I may as well use it. Buttoned or open?’ He faces Harry, bringing the wings of his collar together then letting them go. Harry only now notices that Nick is properly nervous.

‘You look gorgeous in anything, darling.’ 

Nick winces and Harry wants to cram the words back into his mouth. 

‘S’all right,’ Nick says. ‘You don’t have to start yet. There’s no journos here.’

‘Unbuttoned,’ Harry says, subdued. 

Nick’s fingers stop fluttering around his neck and he lets the collar fall open. ‘God, are we gonna be shit at this?’

It’s only just occurring to Harry himself. ‘Probably.’ They stare at each other in comradely apprehension for a moment or two. ‘Come on, Grimshaw,’ Harry says eventually. ‘Let’s go and make like lovers do.’

~

Front rows at even the most high end designers’ shows are little more than glorified gym benches. They cosy up next to each other, hips touching, as they’ve done loads of times before. Harry had always been appalled when he saw pictures from any front row he’d done with Nick – their conspiratorial giggling, touching knees and whispering made Harry feel like his ridiculous crush had been splashed humiliatingly across the front pages. Incredibly, Nick never seemed to notice. If he had, Harry would never have heard the end of it. 

This time he doesn’t have to worry about anyone getting the wrong idea. He picks an imaginary piece of lint off Nick’s collar. Nick pulls an imaginary stray hair from Harry’s fringe. They giggle and begin to indulge in an orgy of lint-picking and grooming. Harry feels giddy. People are going to think they’re taking the piss. But then again, maybe they won’t even need to kiss they’re being so obvious. Harry leans on Nick’s knee to hear something Nick’s neighbour says. Nick smiles at him. From afar it would look fond, up close Nick’s eyes glitter with mischief. 

There’s a bunch of photographers behind the opposite front row, and one of them falls off his footstool, disappearing behind the others. They collapse into laughter and can’t stop. People falling over is automatically funny, Harry tells himself, it’s why _You’ve Been Framed_ is still on the telly. As they’re grinning at each other, Nick says ‘Shall we?’ and Harry says, ‘Yeah,’ and they kiss, mouths crashing together, smile against smile. Nothing happens for a second or two, then Harry hears a dip in the noise level around them and there’s a sudden volley of flashes. It’s a suspended moment that seems to last forever, him and Nick at the centre of it, holding their mouths together. Then they pull apart, still grinning, and the buzz starts up again, a little bit louder than before. 

It’s that easy.

>   
>  _**Who Said Bromance Was Dead?**  
>  What’s that whooshing noise? Are we going back in time? Is it… 2012 again? Nick Grimshaw and Harry Styles were out on the town last night and reminded us all how they used to be the holy terror of London’s nightlife. It started at the Burberry show at London Fashion Week and continued the next night when the terrible two were spotted at the opening of a new private members’ club in Soho. Later that night they were seen falling out of the Groucho after ‘a nightcap’._
> 
> _But before you ask yourself if the greatest bromance of the twenty-first century is back on, you better lose that letter ‘B’ because Harry, who came out as bi-sexual last year, was seen planting one on the Grimster during the Burberry show, and they were holding hands as they emerged from the late night drinking den. Harry and Grimmy have made it clear from the off that they’re serious this time: it’s romance with a capital R._  
> 

~

 

Nick’s mouth pressed up against his is not a new sensation. Harry used to kiss Nick all the time. He used to kiss all his mates all the time. The ones at home would make disgusted spitting noises and tell him to fuck off. Nick and his friends didn’t do that. It was a London thing, Harry thought, a grown-up thing. Harry was careful not to do it in view of a camera, because the tabloids were like his friends back home – took everything too seriously and told everyone. But when he could, Harry kissed Nick: kissed him hello and goodbye, and when he said something really funny or when Harry was just feeling happy. Maybe it was why no-one believed them when they said they were just mates. They looked so comfortable with their faces kissing-close, like they were about to any second. Chemistry, he knew some people said about them. He shrugged. It was just Nick. Harry loved him, that was all. It wasn’t complicated. He loved all his mates, and yes, maybe he loved Nick a bit more, a bit differently, but that wasn’t complicated either. He couldn’t have him like that – for a lot of reasons – and it was ok. It didn’t stop him hoping.

But hope sours when it’s not fed, and Harry eventually left for LA. All Nick had done was raise one eyebrow and point out that Harry always did take a tan well. Contact faded, the thread of texts and tweets between them stretching gossamer-fine. By the time Harry came back to London for good, they were like friendly exes. On good terms but not close. He’d thought that was it.

~

‘Oh come on, Nick, maybe you don’t like his paintings. Doesn’t mean they’re objectively shit.’

‘They’re objectively shit, Haz. You’ll see what I mean.’

They’re at some dolled-up railway arches in east London, plastic cups of warm white wine in their hands. The dominant colour on the canvasses is brown, it’s true, and if he’s honest, they aren’t Harry’s cup of tea either. But he goes round looking at each one carefully. The paint has a weird composition, grainy, and the paintings are all of domestic interiors, mostly kitchens. There’s a knot of people at the next painting, one of them speaking louder than the others.

‘…why I used cat faeces as medium.’

‘Isn’t that really unhygienic?’ says another voice in the gaggle.

‘Chemically treated, of course.’

On cue, Nick’s face pops out from the other side of the knot of people, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. _Objectively shit_ , he mouths. Harry has to turn round before he’s spotted with his face crumpling. As he walks in the opposite direction, he feels Nick come up beside him.

‘Come on, let’s go for a fag.’

They burst into the little courtyard in front of the railway arch. They get dirty looks from the smokers already there, murmuring in their polite art voices. Nick and Harry are still sniggering when Nick offers the packet to him. Harry takes one and leans forward for a light, hand around Nick’s, sheltering it from the breeze. He just manages to stop laughing long enough for the cigarette to be lit. 

‘What did I say?’

‘Objectively proven, yeah.’

They lean back grinning at each other. Once upon a time Harry would have leaned forward and kissed Nick without thinking: there were no cameras and the only people present didn’t know or didn’t give a crap who they are. Now it’s exactly why he can’t. Nick reaches out with his free hand and gently squeezes Harry’s cheeks into a fish pout. His fingers are chilly. Harry waggles his lips up and down. Nick lets go and they exhale their smoke. 

‘Sorry I dragged you here,’ Nick says. ‘Looks like it was a washout. Gonna kill Aimee.’

Apparently she’d said it was some massive event, tons of press there, they’d be seen for sure. Another opportunity to get the word out: Harry Styles and Nick Grimshaw, Together At Last. Only it was dead, just the artist and a few of his friends and hangers-on. 

Harry shrugs. ‘I’m having fun anyway. I’ve always loved a bit of shit art.’

Nick giggles again over his ‘shut up.’ Then with a raised eyebrow, ‘Shall we get out of here?’

It’s not far to Shoreditch House and they recklessly order espresso martinis even though it’s a work night for Nick. Harry knows they’re sitting at the bar for everyone to see because they’ve tacitly agreed that they’re still ‘on’, still performing. It was like they both knew sitting at a table would feel too intimate, as if they were just here to have a drink with each other. They still talk about Nick’s mum and dad though, and his new dog – that makes three – and Gemma and Anne and the boys. 

It was sometimes hard for Harry to remember that he hadn’t known Nick when he was growing up. They knew the same areas, hung out at the same crap bars in Manchester that would serve underage, and eventually found out that even bits of their families knew each other. It was like meeting a distant cousin you’d only ever heard of before, complete with the awkward yet thrilling realisation that you fancied them.

Nick’s trying not to laugh at one of his own jokes, crows’ feet twitching, lips working as he tries to stop the smile and Harry wants to kiss him again. Shoreditch House is one of those what-happens-in-Vegas places, members only, no gawping civilians, the lighting so dim you can hardly make out individual faces, even though the talk is usually about as scandalous as someone’s disappointing Q4 sales. It’s unlikely anyone’s going to give them a second glance, but he’s had enough alcohol not to care, and leans forward and presses his mouth to Nick’s. It’s a little off-centre and – because he can, and like he never would have before – Harry brings his hand up to Nick’s face to hold him there so the kiss can go on. Nick doesn’t move away and they hold it for three heartbeats. It’s the longest they’ve ever kissed. 

Small, irrelevant details jump into focus: a woman’s laugh somewhere behind him; his fist around the stem of the martini glass, holding it like a child; Nick’s fingers curled round his upper arm. Nick’s mouth is closed but soft, like it would open easily, at the slightest push of his tongue. He’s never felt that before. He supposes he’s never kissed Nick for long enough. When they break apart Harry is breathless. Nick knocks back the last of his drink. 

‘That was a bit pointless,’ he says, turning away to put his glass carefully on the bar. ‘There’s no-one here to see.’ 

Harry shrugs and looks out across the room. ‘Someone might have got it on their phone.’ 

The low murmur of voices and the wallpaper dubstep continue undisturbed. People lean towards each other in conversation, or look relaxed in their seats. The barman polishes a glass. Another re-fills the fridge with craft beer from a micro-brewery down the road. No-one is looking at them. The kiss had been just for them.

~

He’s having lunch with Gemma and she’s telling him a story that’s really funny - he can tell from her face - he just isn’t quite sure what it’s about. 

‘So that’s when Lou grabbed his nuts.’ Gemma looks wicked, leaning across the table towards him. It’s the only sentence he’s heard in the last five minutes. 

‘I thought it was Sam,’ Harry says vaguely.

They haven’t seen each other in ages. When he’s not been out with Nick, Harry’s been shut away with the boys sorting out the greatest hits. _1D1_ it’s going to be called, just their number ones. Just their older ones then, Gemma had joked. 

‘Are you even listening to me?’

‘Not really, no.’ 

She sighs.

‘Sorry.’

He's been like this in band meetings too. Up until a few days ago he’d been annoying the piss out of everyone with his opinions. Now all he’s doing is staring into space and thinking about Nick’s mouth. The soft yielding feel of it and the compelling idea that he was welcome there. 

‘What’s going on, Henry Bean?’ Her voice is gentle on the nickname. She dips her head to catch his eye. He crumbles a bit of focaccia between his fingers. It’s too salty. 

‘I kissed Nick,’ he says.

‘I know,’ she says on a laugh. ‘I saw it in the papers?’

‘I mean. For real. Not in public. Well, Shoreditch House. Doesn’t count.’

Her smile fades. ‘Woah,’ she says softly. ‘You kept that quiet. What happened?’

Harry shrugs. ‘I kissed him. You know. Like I used to. Only for longer, like properly, because I thought, fuck it, I can. And…’ He trails off.

‘He wasn’t into it? Or what?’

‘No, he was into it. That’s sort of the problem.’

Gemma raises an eyebrow. ‘You realise that doesn’t make any sense, right?’

‘He went all snippy and weird after.’ He flops back in his seat. ‘I’m pretty sure he was into it. You can tell, you know?’

Gemma nods.

‘So why did he back off? What’s the problem? He’s into it, I’m into it, we don’t have to pretend anymore. Less stress all round. It seems mad. But now he’s gone all weird, and I don’t know what to do and - ’

He breaks off, aware that he’s been rambling and waving his arms a bit.

‘You need to talk to him, H,’ Gemma says. ‘That’s all. It’s not a big deal. Just talk to him.’

He slumps in his seat a bit. ‘I know.’ It’s what he’d been dreading. Because what if he’s wrong and he makes a giant tit of himself? They fall silent for a bit. Harry leans on one elbow and contemplates the mess of his plate. ‘I never thought he wanted me,’ he says. ‘I thought I was just a kid to him, and he was all, you know, sophisticated and… _London_.’

Gemma chokes out a laugh. ‘This _is_ Grimmy we’re talking about, right? The guy who still thinks it’s hilarious to call Dan Radcliffe Harry Potter? Who went on a flying trapeze for Children in Need and screamed continuously throughout? _That_ Grimmy?’

Harry half smiles at the memory. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘He fucking adores you. I don’t know how you’ve conquered half the world and still have doubts about the people closest to you. You definitely need to talk to him.’

Gemma sits back and blows out a breath. ‘Bloody hell, this was _not_ what I was expecting when I rocked up for a panini half an hour ago.’

‘Sorry Gem.’

‘S’all right. It’s been quite fun.’

‘Heeey. That’s my tragic love drama you’re talking about.’

Gemma beams like she used to when she got an A. 

‘Sadist,’ says Harry.

~

The premiere’s the following Tuesday. He knows he has to talk to Nick before then (because Gemma is always right. It’s an immutable law of the universe and he will never admit it to her). So when they’ve finished in the studio on Friday afternoon Harry gets his phone out, bracing himself to call. When he sees a message from Nick already waiting for him, his breath catches. God, did he…? It’s short, he doesn’t need to swipe it open to read the whole thing.

_Gels bday Sunday. She wants you to come. Three Miners Westbourne Grove. 2pm._

No telepathy then. It’s weirdly terse, but he supposes he’ll take it. And he’s touched – he’s always liked Gels. Maybe he and Nick can talk in the cab over to west London. Harry phones him on Sunday morning. (He could have texted. He feels so obvious.)

‘I’ll see you down there,’ Nick says. ‘I’ve got a meeting in the area.’ 

‘On a Sunday?’

‘It’s an indie production company,’ Nick said vaguely. ‘You know what they’re like.’

 _Yeah, and they never have Sunday meetings_. ‘I suppose so. See you there then.’

The Three Miners is a _really_ nice pub, so nice (and expensive) it’s barely a pub at all. Gels has the function room upstairs, and there’s not a trace of formica or torn velvet or a rickety chair to be seen. It’s an elegant, airy room, flooded with sunlight that bounces off the unlit chandeliers and down over the heavy wooden table laid with glittering cutlery and creamy napery. Gels sits at the head and is generally how Harry remembers her, a riot: gorgeous, clever, alcoholic. He says _hi_ when he arrives, but her end of the table is journos and other older people he doesn’t know, so he heads for Pixie and Henry’s end. There’s no sign of Nick.

He pores over Aimee’s kid pictures and hears about Pix’s latest music venture and tries and fails to stop his eyes flickering over to the door. Of course when Nick does arrive he causes such a flurry that Harry only manages to answer Nick’s raised hand with his own before Nick goes to sit at Gels’ end. It’s her birthday, he tells himself, this isn’t about him and Nick. He flirts up a storm with Daisy and he makes excited friends with a bloke who turns out to be one of Gels’ colleagues from the Indy, whose music writing he knows (‘Fuck, I loved your article on Frightened Rabbit. Made me listen to that album with a new set of ears.’) and who is taken aback by Harry’s knowledge and interest (‘Thanks man,’ he says uncertainly. ‘No-one usually looks at the byline.’), which Harry is completely used to. And then somewhere into the main course, Nick’s voice floats up from the other end of the table. 

‘…my fake boyfriend!’

Harry doesn’t know if he hears it because Nick’s voice was deliberately louder on the phrase, or because the words themselves sang out to him, but he looks around to see Nick and Gels and some others are smiling down the table at him. He knew Nick had told a few people what was going on, and he supposes this is a safe place. The culture editor of the _Independent_ ’s birthday lunch isn’t exactly catnip for paps and _Heat_. He waves and grins and there’s a low rumble of laughter. Harry supposes he should call something witty back but he can’t think of anything and they all go back to their conversations. 

He and the music writer chat through pudding, and when Harry looks up again, the usual game of musical chairs has started, everybody getting up to talk to people they haven’t seen in ages. Nick’s still in his own seat, on the edges of a conversation, but not really engaged. Harry remembers a time when he would have turned to catch Harry’s eye and they would have moved together to debrief: sharing gossip and bitching gently, partners in crime. But he’s not looking round for anyone else to talk to and has his back three-quarters turned to Harry’s end of the table. Harry knows it’s deliberate. There’s a free seat next to him. He picks his way over and he’s grasping the back of Nick’s chair as he sits down when Nick looks up. 

‘Ooh it’s the “boyfriend”,’ he says jauntily. Harry can hear the inverted commas. 

Harry sits down and as he lets go of Nick’s chair, in a move that’s barely perceptible to anyone but Harry, Nick shuffles an inch further away. 

‘Hiya Gels! Happy Birthday,’ he calls over to Gillian.

‘Thanks darling! Thanks for coming!’ She beams. She’s pissed as, and looks incredibly happy to be so. ‘Having fun playing husbands with Nick?’

Harry’s stomach twists at the word ‘husbands’. ‘Yeah, of course.’ He looks playfully at Nick and Nick catches his eye, but there’s an uncertain turn to his smile. ‘I get a hot guy on my arm and none of Nick’s drama. All the benefits, none of the drawbacks.’

Everyone laughs. 

‘Fuck you, drama,’ says Nick without heat. Harry smiles but remembers Nick’s mouth again from a few nights ago. _We both want this and we don’t have to lie about it. So why are we?_

‘So it’s true,’ says a guy opposite Harry who he vaguely remembers from some other do of Gels’ years ago. He leans forward over the table. ‘You’re just faking it for your friend’s premiere?’ His eyes dart between him and Nick. The guy is already living up to Harry’s memory of him as quite annoying. 

‘Yeah,’ says Nick flatly. ‘We can’t stand each other really.’

‘It’s a favour for a mate.’ Harry says. ‘I don’t mind helping.’

‘It’s not doing much for LGBT issues though, is it. If it involves lying,’ says the man. ‘Isn’t honesty more important?’

‘It’s a white lie,’ Harry says patiently. ‘In the service of something better.’

‘But after what you did. I mean, that was so _brave_. This is just…’ The guy waves his hand vaguely but Harry can hear the unspoken _tacky_ on the tip of his tongue. 

Harry grits his teeth. Fuck he hates this. ‘The publicity for the film will be amazing,’ he says evenly. ‘There’s the potential that more people who wouldn’t otherwise have seen it will see it. What’s bad about more representation?’

‘But I mean, faking a gay relationship instead of straight one? Makes you wonder how far we’ve really come…’ He cocks a challenging eyebrow at Harry. Harry takes a deep breath, but is saved by the hostess herself.

‘No politics!’ she declares, holding out both arms like Jesus at the last supper. ‘No arguing on my birthday.’

‘Oh Gillian. We were just having a friendly debate, weren’t we Harry?’

Harry hears a chair scraping back behind him. 

‘I’m going for a slash,’ Nick says. ‘I’ve had a skinful.’

Nick sways off towards the loos and the guy shoots a knowing look at his back and even though Nick’s getting on his tits, that look makes Harry want to lean over the table and go nose-to-nose with the guy. _He’s not what you think. You know nothing about him._ Instead, he pushes his own chair back and gets up to follow. It’s the least worst of his two options at the moment. 

Nick’s resting his forehead against the tiled wall above the urinal when Harry walks in. 

‘You all right?’

Nick’s shoulders jump at Harry’s greeting and he straightens and turns, zipping up. ‘Yeah, fine. You?’

‘I was having fun until that dickhead opened his mouth.’ Harry starts to pee.

‘He’s some senior guy at the Indy. Gels likes him for some reason.’

Harry can’t see Nick’s face but he can hear water splashing. ‘It was nice of her to invite me.’

‘She wanted to see you. She’s always liked you.’

Not, _I asked her to invite you._ Not, _I wanted to see you._ Nick might say something else after that but it’s drowned out by the noise of the hand-drier. Harry finishes off and turns to go to the sink. ‘I thought it might have been because of …’ _Being your fake boyfriend_. ‘Nina and the film. You know, because…’

Nick rolls his eyes. ‘There’s no one here to see us.’ He shakes the last drips of water from his hands. ‘Get a grip, Styles.’

‘Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?’ 

_Fuck_. Cool Styles, very cool.

‘What? Gels is one of my best friends and it’s her birthday,’ Nick says with an exaggerated patience that makes Harry want to deck him. ‘You were at the other end of the table talking to Pix. I haven’t been avoiding you. This isn’t school. Grow up.’ 

‘Grow up? You practically climbed into Billy’s lap when I came and sat next to you.’

‘Jealous?’

‘Oh for… Don’t be a prick.’

Wow, this is going well. Nick doesn’t say anything else, just looks tiredly at Harry before he turns away and pushes the door open. Harry calls, ‘Nick,’ but there’s just a blast of chatter and music and then the door shuts and Harry’s alone. He stares at the door and feels the promise of that kiss – that fucking kiss that he’s memorised and holds onto like a totem – fade out of his grasp. 

When he emerges Nick’s gone. He stays, partly because it would look too obviously like they’d either rowed or fucked if he left straight after Nick. But mainly he stays because he wants to get royally pissed. He was having a good time before all the nonsense with Nick and Senior Dickhead. And Senior Dickhead – Giles, apparently – turns out to be all right after a few drinks anyway.

~

>   
>  __  
> **Trouble in paradise?**  
>  Uh-oh, no sooner did we predict wedding bells, than it looks a bit wobbly in the Grimshaw-Styles household. Grimmy was seen leaving pal Gillian Orr’s birthday bash early on Sunday, and sans _his new squeeze. Looks pretty GRIM in that pic doesn’t he? And there’s Harry leaving later, looking pretty er,_ exuberant _, and with a very attractive new friend in tow. We thought Harry Styles had changed his ways, but looks like he’s not ready to settle down after all._  
> 

~

 

Nina is tiny as she swoops on them at the premiere.

‘I can’t believe you guys,’ she says. ‘You went to so much trouble. The build up over the last month has been amazing. More than I dreamed of. Thank you so much.’

She’s wearing a nondescript nice dress that’s probably from H&M but looks stunning on her because she so obviously spends the rest of her time in jeans and a puffa jacket with her hair in a straggly topknot. Harry likes her instantly.

‘No worries.’

‘Yeah,’ says Nick. ‘It’s actually been real fun.’ He turns to Harry with a smile. He’s got his ‘big event’ face on. 

He’s always been amazing at this sort of stuff. Harry learned how to do it, but he’d always been in awe of Nick’s ability to shut out everything else. He absolutely can’t tell what Nick’s thinking. They stood in front of the photographers and Harry remembered how much he used to want this: Nick’s easy affection, his uncomplicated touch. But never like this, a carpet (of whatever colour), baying photographers, a performance of romance. He’d known that would be part of it but it wasn’t what he dreamed of.

‘We hope it’s helped, that’s all,’ Harry says. 

She smiles and squeezes his arm before ushering them through to hospitality. Then she’s off to speak to someone else.

‘I love her,’ Harry says.

‘She’s the reason I did it.’

 _Not because of you. Not because it would be fun_. They get drinks and go through to find their seats. 

Harry manages to pay attention to the full first half-hour of the film. It’s obviously not made with much money, but it’s cleverly shot so it doesn’t show. The writing is sharp and Harry is genuinely engaged until, out of the corner of his eye, he becomes aware of Nick getting up. He watches as Nick shuffles further and further away to end of the row and then disappears up the dark aisle. 

Harry tries to return his attention to the screen, but he can’t avoid the feeling that he just watched Nick disappear out of his life for good. He’s being dramatic, he tells himself. Harry knows Nick is too loyal to have bailed on Nina halfway through, but Harry can’t see straight. There’s an hour of the film left, and it stretches ahead of him like five. He can see everything that will happen. Nick will make himself unreachable in the next few days and they’ll go back to being friendly exes. Or not-so-friendly exes. Whatever, it’s unlikely Harry will see him again.

He has no idea what he’s doing as he gets up and starts to follow Nick’s path over people’s knees and bags, whispering his _sorry_ s and _thank you_ s. Nick could be anywhere, he could have gone home, gone out clubbing, thinks Harry dementedly. Maybe he just really needed the loo. Maybe Harry’s being ridiculous. When he passes Nina she grabs his wrist. He braces himself for an earful, but all she says is, ‘Is everything ok?’

‘Yeah,’ he whispers back. ‘Nick wasn’t feeling well earlier. Just checking he’s ok. Sorry.’

She makes a sympathetic face, and he moves to the end of the row, then he’s out of the auditorium and in a quiet carpeted corridor. He checks the loos first because they’re nearest, knocking on the cubicle doors and calling Nick’s name, but nothing. He might be in the bar, but there’s a fire exit halfway up the corridor and Harry tries that, pushing the bar down, hoping it’s not alarmed and knowing it’s too much to hope for Nick to be outside it. No deafening bell kicks into action, and Nick looks up as the door opens. He’s taking a drag on a cigarette. He looks hunted. 

Harry had imagined himself saying something, apologising, conciliating, _anything_ , but instead he walks up to Nick, whips the cigarette away and cuts off the outraged ‘Hey, I only just –’ with his mouth. Nick tastes of nicotine and traces of the beer he had earlier and for a few seconds joins him. He grips Harry’s waist and he kisses Harry back hungrily. Harry has him, really has him, before he pulls away suddenly, dragging a hand across his mouth.

‘Shit, Harry, don’t. It’s not funny. There’s no cameras, you don’t have to - ’ 

‘Funny? I’m not. It’s not the cameras. Fuck, Nick.’ Wow, articulate, Styles. ‘We want this, don’t we?’

Nick laughs nervously. ‘ _We_? Do we?’

‘I do. And I’m pretty sure you - ’

‘Always were very sure of yourself, weren’t you?’ 

But there’s no accusation or cockiness, his voice quivers, and his eyes look lost. 

‘Yeah,’ Harry murmurs and drags Nick towards him again, crushing their mouths together. Nick’s fingers dig into his neck and scrub through his hair and a soft groan is torn from the back of his throat as they kiss again and again. Then Harry is being shoved against the wall and Nick is pressing against him, almost lifting him up, his mouth sucking at Harry’s throat. 

Harry feels like the fire exit door has led him into a world where the rules are different and he has no idea what’s going on. He expected … he doesn’t know what. A chat, some sort of resolution. Not this wild coming together.

Nick gasps, resting his forehead against Harry’s shoulder, and murmurs, ‘Fuck. God. This is…’ He looks up at Harry, eyes searching his wildly. ‘We can’t… We have to…’ 

‘We can’t what? What’s the matter? I want this. Please don’t…’

‘I mean. We can’t do this now. We should go back inside. Nina’ll…’

Harry lets out a bubble of laughter, of relief. ‘I thought you were blowing me off again.’ Harry pulls away and still feels off-kilter when he looks at Nick. His expression is full of regret. It could be at having to break off, but it could be at kissing Harry in the first place. He has no idea. ‘More though,’ he blurts. ‘Later. Please.’

Nick’s expression twists. ‘Yeah,’ he says and presses his mouth a final time against Harry’s. ‘God help me, but yeah. Later.’ 

~

They don’t touch again, not even holding hands when they leave the cinema for the few remaining photographers – the weaklings left the scraps by the big hunters. The only touch Harry remembers before they close Nick’s front door is Nick’s hand briefly on the small of his back as he’s getting in the cab. They sit on opposite sides, each looking out of their own window. 

Harry remembers how he used to stand under the electricity pylons in the fields around Holmes Chapel. He used to hear the power thrumming through the cables far above his head, thinking that this was what boiled the kettle, gave him T4 and X-Factor, a clean uniform and a hot shower. It was a quiet sound, and the pylon vibrated gently under his hand when he touched it. But he knew it was carrying enough power to kill him, to fry him in a second. Harry doesn’t know what he’s woken up in them both. Sitting in the back of that cab, barely looking at Nick, Harry feels his desire running through him like the vibrations inside the pylon. It’s not the power that streams safely round his mum’s house, but the power that could destroy him. 

Nick pays the cabbie and they walk up the steps to his front door. He faffs with his key, putting it in the wrong way, dropping it, before he finally gets it in the lock and opens the door. He switches the hall light on and starts unwinding his scarf. ‘Do you want a coffee?’ he says, not looking at Harry. 

‘No,’ Harry says. ‘No, I don’t want a coffee.’

Nick turns slowly to face him. ‘Tea?’ he says on a nervous titter. He lets the end of his scarf drop. ‘Oh god,’ he says weakly. ‘It’s really happening.’ He stands there in his jacket, his scarf hanging lopsidedly round his neck and Harry loves him. He moves forward and their mouths land awry before they sink into each other. Nick sags heavily against him and he bunches Nick’s jacket in his hands and pulls Nick against him, plundering his mouth. They support each other in a bizarre limping waltz into the lounge where he pushes Nick onto the nearest sofa and crawls on top of him. Nick’s hands snake under Harry’s shirt and Harry presses their hard-ons together, feeling how their bodies move against each other, not perfectly in time, but solid and wanting. 

At some point he sits back on his heels to undo his fly, and he looks down at Nick, sprawled on the couch, looking heavy-lidded back up at him. Residual streetlight from the window limns his body and face, and Harry gets that feeling he had back in the fire exit. That he’s stepped through a door into a different world. It’s bewildering, dizzying having Nick like this. For all that Harry’s felt over the years, all his attraction, he’d never been able to imagine Nick like this – drunk on sex, sleepy-eyed, urgent. Everything about how he is, how different he is, inflames Harry. He bends forward and starts unbuttoning Nick’s shirt, his mouth covering the bare skin as it’s revealed, his breath and tongue dragging noises from Nick he’s never heard before.

He sucks him off messily, half hanging off the sofa, bringing himself off with his hand shoved in his pants, the crumpled denim of Nick’s jeans under his hand, his soft shirt under his cheek, the acrid tang of come and cologne in his nostrils and it’s like it’s the first time he’s given a blow-job. Nick comes suddenly and Harry chokes, swallows what he can and catches some on his cheek. 

‘Fuck,’ Nick pants. ‘Sorry.’

‘S’ok,’ Harry sits up after a bit, and swipes the heel of his hand over his mouth. He snuffles and swipes his hand under his nose as well. Blow jobs always make him snotty.

‘Charming,’ Nick murmurs. Harry raises one knee and starts to push himself to standing.

‘Where’s the loo?’ 

‘There’s an ensuite in the dressing-room.’

‘ _Dressing_ -room.’

‘Shut up.’

They smirk at each other and Harry feels a first glimmer of hope that this might not end in disaster.

He makes his way down the darkened hallway, picking his way over discarded shirts and socks in the dressing-room to the open doorway in the corner. He pulls the cord just inside and a fluorescent buzzes on above the sink, flickering the room into its harsh glow. He washes his hands and splashes water over his face, peering at himself in the mirror. His eyes are heavy, still glassy and the colour is high in his cheeks. His hair is a mess and there’s something that is possibly come in it. He looks unsurprisingly like he’s just had an orgasm. He ruffles the possible-come back in. Good conditioner, he’s heard. His body hums, his dick still tender. He’d come hard and fast, not something he’s experienced that often. If he comes fast, the orgasm’s usually half-arsed, disappointing. This had been fireworks-behind-his-eyes good. 

He looks at Nick’s bits and pieces on the sink-surround. Aftershave, a couple of rings, a lone cufflink, some tweezers, hair gunk. Last minute grooming things. He picks up the aftershave automatically. It smells like Nick. What’s the matter with him? Of course it smells like Nick, and he’s just down the hall, Harry doesn’t have to go round sniffing his flipping aftershave. 

Fuck, he’s so in love.

He puts the bottle down. He hopes it’s not going to be weird now. Should he go home? He doesn’t want to go home. But for all the heat between them, Harry knows this isn’t just a straightforward shag. Harry doesn’t know what Nick’s meant by some of the things he’s said tonight. _God help me. It’s really happening._

When Harry gets back to the lounge he finds Nick’s closed the curtains and turned on a lamp, and is just turning on another. He’s put himself back together: trousers on, jacket off, shoes off, but his hair’s all over the place and there’s still a hectic blush in his face. Harry feels a terrible, heart-splitting tenderness for him. 

‘Fancy a brew?’ Nick says. 

‘Fuck yeah.’ Harry’s relief is audible. Nick doesn’t need to know it’s not just at the prospect of tea.

‘ _Now_ you want one.’ Nick goes past him, out towards wherever the kitchen is. ‘Now you’ve got the sex out of the way.’

Harry follows, grinning broadly, helplessly at Nick’s back. ‘Well, you know. Priorities, mate.’

~

They get the tea sorted – Harry taking the piss out of Nick’s tea-bags, because it’s the law, Nick smacking his hand away when he tries to back-seat-brew – and then they’re leaning against the counter cradling mugs. Harry’s heart feels big with the mundanity of this, with how comfortable it is. He knows what the bigness is and that there’s nothing he can do about it. He slides one foot over to nudge Nick’s. They both look down and Nick nudges back then covers Harry’s with his. 

‘What did you mean when you said “god help me”’

Nick is puzzled. ‘I don’t know. When did I say that?’ 

‘Back there. At the cinema.’

Nick thinks for a moment and then sighs floppily. ‘God, I’m a drama queen.’ He takes his foot away from Harry’s. ‘I didn’t mean anything. Or I did, but it’s stupid.’

‘Go on.’ Harry nudges Nick. ‘You’ve got to tell me now.’

‘God it’s so obvious, I don’t know why I’m even embarrassed telling you.’

‘It can’t be that obvious, because I don’t kn –

‘I’m a fool for you, Haz,’ Nick says, looking briefly at Harry then away. ‘I’m an idiot. And I knew if we started anything like this, I wouldn’t want to stop.’

‘But I didn’t want to stop.’ 

‘Not like… Not just fucking. I meant… Everything, you know.’

‘Everything.’ Harry echoes blankly. 

‘Forget it. I’m a drama queen.’

Nick moves away to put his mug in the sink. Then he picks it up and starts rinsing it out, very much not looking at Harry, his cheeks redder even than before. He rubs busily with a scrubber around the rim of the mug. There is no way it needs that amount of washing. 

Harry goes over to him, putting his mug down on the counter as he goes, and presses himself against Nick’s back, slides his arms around his waist. He rests his cheek against Nick’s t-shirted shoulder.

‘I’m,’ he says into the fabric. He gets his words together. ‘I’ve wanted you for so long, Nick.’ Nick’s arms stop moving in the sink. ‘I don’t get how you can’t see that.’

‘What’s long?’ Nick’s voice is mouse-quiet.

Harry shrugs. ‘Always.’

Nick doesn’t say anything for a moment, then he turns slowly in Harry’s arms. His expression is very close to how Harry would imagine he’d look when the first aliens start landing.

‘I thought you were going to say a couple of weeks. What the hell does “always” mean outside of a Disney film?’ 

‘Since I was a kid,’ he says. ‘A peachfuzz kid on the X-Factor and you were a glamorous night-time Radio 1 DJ. Since then.’

Nick’s face falls all the way down. He presses against Harry’s chest gently with his fingertips. ‘Give me some space please, Styles.’

Harry steps away from him. ‘Do you want me to go?’

Nick shakes his head. ‘Just…’ He waves his hand in the vague direction of ‘away’. Harry draws out one of the chairs at the kitchen table. He sits and waits. Nick keeps glancing over at him and then away.

‘But you were all over _everyone_ ,’ Nick says eventually. ‘You were just a massive flirt.’

‘Takes one to know one.’

There’s a pause.

‘S’pose,’ Nick concedes. ‘But fuck. I thought that was all it was. All this too, now.’ He makes an awkward sweeping motion with his hand. ‘Going out and snogging for the cameras. It was just a laugh to you. You’ve - ’. He stops.

‘I’ve what?’

‘You’ve always loved making people fall in love with you.’

‘I… what? Have I?’

‘’s what it seems like. Sometimes.’

‘Is that what you think I am? Some like… master manipulator?’

They both splutter out giggles. It _is_ ridiculous. 

Harry knows he shouldn’t ask what he does next, he _knows_ , but he can’t help it. ‘Would I have stood a chance then?’ 

Nick looks sharply at him, then shakes his head. ‘Don’t, H.’

‘Would I?’

Nick lets out bitter breath of laughter. ‘You always stood a chance.’

Harry’s mouth is desert-dry. ‘Disney always?’ 

‘Disney always.’

Nick is looking down and making some sort of shape on the lino with his foot, drawing out an endless square or triangle. He looks so miserable Harry can’t bear it. He gets up and presses himself against Nick, wrapping his arms as tightly as he can around him. Nick’s arms eventually come up slowly and fold around Harry’s shoulders. He buries his face in Harry’s neck. Harry knows they’re both thinking the same thing. He knows they’re both thinking about the years that stretch between now and when they first met. 

‘Shit,’ Nick murmurs into Harry’s hair.

‘Yeah.’

It seems to sum up everything nicely.

~

_EPILOGUE_

>   
>  _**Fake it to make it**  
>  We’re in a bit of a spin here at _ Heat _Towers. Remember Grimmy and Harry Styles rekindling their bromance, tearing up the London scene like it was 2012? But with a difference because it was capital R, no B, Romance? THEN it came out (no pun intended) that it was a Fauxmance all along, yeah? Because they did it as a favour for Grimmy’s filmmaking pal who wanted a high rolling gay couple to publicise her new flick._
> 
> _Ok, so you’re solid now, right? Friends, more-than-friends, now back to friends again? Wrong! NOW they’re back on again. Romance, capital R, etc. ‘We just realised how much we like each other,’ Grimmy told us. ‘It was a bit confusing, but we got it together in the end.’ Confusing? You’re telling us, G-man. We wish you and Hazza the best – we always said you made the cutest couple – but we’re off to have a lie-down with a nice stiff cocktail to recover. Wake us up for the wedding, won’t you?_  
> 


End file.
